


No Mercy

by Feanix



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 23:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17517785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanix/pseuds/Feanix
Summary: While trying to escape with his sister, Percy falls to a volley of arrows, and reawakens as a captive of the Briarwoods.





	No Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally meant to explore an alternate universe take on all the members of Vox Machina, but I found myself struggling to write any of the others, so I've decided to just make this a one-shot story.
> 
> If you feel that there's something I have missed in the warnings, please don't hesitate to let me know and I will add it.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include canon-typical violence (specifically broken bones and stab wounds), suppression of free will with magic, references to dead bodies, decomposition (no specific detail), and undead, and references to vampirism (including neck biting).

_13 Cuersaar, 806 P.D._

Percy would never know for sure what made him look back. The snap of a twig? A flash of movement, glimpsed at the edge of his vision? Whatever it was, it was all the warning he had before their pursuers loosed at least a half-dozen arrows at them. No time to alert Cassandra. Without stopping to think Percy threw himself at his sister, shoving her aside and taking the arrows meant for her.

The pain was immediate, and it was excruciating. No pain that Percy had ever felt in his life compared to what he experienced in those first few seconds. He didn’t even really feel the impact of his body hitting the ground. How many arrows had hit him? What vital organs had been damaged irreparably when the arrowheads first struck? He wanted to scream at his attackers, and he wanted to scream at Cassandra to run, to keep running, and to not look back. He didn’t even know if he had saved her with his sacrifice or slowed her down when he pushed her out of the way. How hard had he pushed her? He couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t clear his mind enough to focus properly, and that in and of itself was terrifying. He needed to be able to think clearly; without his wits, without his intellect and creativity, he was nothing. Not strong and driven like Julius, or brave and inspiring like Vesper; not compassionate like Oliver or cunning like Whitney or intuitive like Ludwig. Were any of them still alive? Had they escaped, as he and Cassandra had? Were he and Cassandra the last ones to get out, or simply the last ones alive?

Or am I the last one? The thought came unbidden, and refused to leave no matter how much Percy tried to dismiss it. He wanted to scream, to make his pain and his anguish heard. We were the protectors of Whitestone. We were your devoted servants, Pelor. How could you let this happen to us?

No answer came, of course. Percy was no fool; he knew the gods were trapped behind the Divine Gate, and no amount of praying could have brought about the Dawnfather’s intervention. They were alone in the world, with no shield against the horrors that preyed upon them. Maybe the Dawnfather did care, and maybe he would have saved Percy’s family had he been able, but maybes were no good to Percy now.

He thought he could sense movement around him, but it was becoming harder and harder to concentrate. As time continued to move on around him, he found that he was wavering on the edge of awareness. A part of him was fighting desperately to stay alive while another part simply wanted the pain to stop.

At some point the whole world seemed to start shaking and quivering around him. Every motion aggravated his injuries, until his exhausted body could finally take no more, and he fell into the blissful state of unconsciousness.

The pain had eased slightly the next time Percy was fully aware, though it was still ever-present. The first thing he saw as he opened his eyes was the stone ceiling above, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was a familiar ceiling. He was back in his room in the castle. His room, not the cell that Cassandra had found him, what seemed like a lifetime ago. How could he be here? Had his family somehow survived against all odds?

He tried to sit up abruptly, but that just set off more specific stabs of pain at certain parts of his body, eliciting a small whimper from him. He sank back into the folds of the bedcovers and cried pitifully to himself for a moment. Then, with a great deal of effort, he managed lift his head to take in the rest of the room – and his heart almost stopped dead in his chest when he saw none other than Lord Sylas Briarwood seated in his desk chair not far away. For a second he thought he glimpsed something almost predatory in the older man’s smile, but it was gone before he could even be sure of what he’d seen.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Percival,” he said warmly. “We were so worried that we’d lost you.”

Percy scowled deeply. He clenched his teeth and tried again to sit up, drawing himself back against the headboard. Most of his focus, however, was on using that time to try to assess his injuries. His left arm was in a sling, and his whole left side and back were numb. There were bandages wrapped diagonally from shoulder to waist, and around his lower torso as well.

“You did this to me,” he snapped, and he hated how weak his voice sounded.

“It was never our intent for you to come to harm. Rest assured, the ones responsible for what happened out in the woods have been suitably punished.”

The woods. Cassandra. “Where is my sister?”

“Ah, yes, poor Cassandra. Regrettably, she refused to return peacefully. I’m told that she went mad with grief when she saw what my soldiers had done to you, and attempted to kill any who approached. She couldn’t be reasoned with, not even when they tried to convince her to bring you back to tend to your injuries…”

“Where is she?” Percy tried to shout. It came out more like desperate plea.

Lord Briarwood stared at him with something approximating pity in his eyes. “I think you already know. She’s dead, Percival.”

“You’re lying.” Percy’s mind raced, his thoughts in disarray. “You’re lying, you… you’re trying to make me feel isolated, so you can manipulate me. I know Cassandra, she wouldn’t just… She would get away. She’d get away and get help. You can’t trick me.” He levelled his gaze at Lord Briarwood, steeling his resolve. “You can’t trick me. My sister’s alive! You can’t trick me!”

For a moment Lord Briarwood simply stared at him as he repeated this denial again and again. Then the older man just shook his head, getting to his feet and moving toward the door. “I truly wish I was, Percival. This would have been so much easier if you were not the only one.”

Percy barely heard him. He had sunk back down into his bed, trying to force himself to believe what he was saying. Cassandra was alive. She had escaped, she was going to find someone to help them. She was alive, and she was going to come back to save him.

… … …

It was three days before Percy was visited by a familiar face: Professor Anders, his personal tutor. Byron Anders had been a permanent fixture in his life for several years, and yet in that moment Percy would have given anything for the strength to put his hands around his throat and squeeze until he died.

“Why did you do it?” he demanded, before Anders had even finished closing the door behind him. “We invited you into our home, we treated you like family, and you…” His voice cracked and he stopped, willing himself not to show weakness. “Why did you do it?”

“For you,” Professor Anders said immediately, dragging over the chair that Lord Briarwood had previously occupied. “I did it for you, Percival. The Briarwoods are not to be underestimated; they would have set their forces loose on the castle and none of you would have survived. I made a deal with them so that you would be spared.”

Percy was shaking his head, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. He _couldn’t_ believe it, but there was a nagging doubt in his mind that that was something Anders might do. Could he have twisted it around in his mind enough to convince himself that he really was helping _Percy_ by helping the Briarwoods? People could convince themselves of an awful lot. Or maybe the Briarwoods had gotten to him, done something to him with magic? Percy had seen Lady Briarwood cast spells before he was imprisoned, and Anders himself had made sure Percy understood that even the greatest minds were susceptible to the right application of illusion- or enchantment-based magic.

He wasn’t sure which possibility was worse: that Anders had betrayed them, or that he was, even now, a prisoner of Lady Briarwood’s magic. Was there any way to know for sure? He had never taken much of an interest in magic, despite repeated attempts to entice him by Anders.

“You should have tried harder,” he finally said. “If you knew this was going to happen, you should have found a way to help all of us. You’ve got magic of your own.”

“I am not all-powerful, Percival. For all my skills, I am still just one man, and as I said, the Briarwoods have forces at their disposal that I daren’t challenge.” Anders looked at him with the deepest sympathy in his expression, and Percy was in too much pain to try to determine if it was sincere of not. “I am truly sorry for what has been done to you, and I will do everything I can to ensure your time here is comfortable. Believe that, Percival.”

“I… wish I could.” Percy was surprised to realize that he really did. “I really want to believe that you did all this to help me, but… How could you possibly think that was alright? That I would want my life spared in exchange for my entire family?”

Anders looked at him sadly, shaking his head. “You are the brightest student I have ever taught, and you were right when you said that I have been treated like family in the time I have lived here. You are, in so many ways, what I would have wished for in a son, had I ever started a family of my own. I can live with you hating me if it means that incredible intellect of yours is not ripped from this world too soon.”

Percy clenched his fists. He _did_ hate Anders for putting this on him. His mind raced with all the ways his family could have fought back against the Briarwoods if they hadn’t been betrayed. Maybe they wouldn’t have all survived, if Anders was to be believed about the Briarwoods’ forces, but at least some of them might have. At least he wouldn’t be alone, a prisoner in his own home.

“I need you to go,” he said. “I want to be alone.”

“Percival…”

“Get out!” Percy shouted. He took his pillow and threw it with as much force as he could at Anders – which was not much force at all. The pillow barely made it to the end of his bed, and Percy curled in on himself as a spike of pain shot through his torso. It only took him a couple of seconds after that to notice the blood beginning to spread under his arm and down his side.

Yet no sooner had he noticed it then the pain began to fade. More than that, he could feel some of his strength beginning to return. His arm continued to ache in the sling, but the wounds on his side no longer hurt as much. There was a faint whistle in his ears that lingered for a few seconds after, and he was suddenly reminded of all the times Anders had been there to patch him up after one or another of his experiments had gone awry. To his surprise, he just felt more anger at the flood of memories.

“I’ve been laying here, in pain, for the past three days,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You could have come in here at any time and done that, but you _didn’t_.” All the confusion and doubts seemed to have been washed away, and he was left with the certainty that, no matter Anders’ motivations in the end, he couldn’t forgive him. “Just… go.”

The look that Professor Anders gave him then was far too much like the look of pity he had received from Lord Briarwood after he had first awakened to this new, nightmarish reality. It made Percy clench his fists until his palms ached from the bite of his fingernails, and he glared at him until Anders simply nodded and turned around, leaving the room without another word.

All the tension drained from his body as soon as the door closed, and he sank down into the covers of his bed with a sense of weary resignation. He shut his eyes tight, repeating over and over again in his mind: Cassandra’s alive. She’s going to save you. Cassandra’s alive.

… … …

His arm was still in a sling, but Professor Anders’ healing spell had quickened his recovery considerably; by the end of the second week, he was able to get out of bed unaided. As soon as he could walk the distance without getting severely winded, they started expecting his presence in the family dining hall for meals. They stopped bringing those meals to him at the same time, so when he refused to go, he went hungry. He lasted only a day and a half before he acquiesced to their demands.

You need to keep up your strength, he would tell himself every time he sat down at the same table where his family had held a feast in the Briarwoods’ honor, right before their coup. You need to be able to take care of yourself when Cassandra gets here.

He did his best to limit his interactions with the usurpers while attending these meals. Delilah, sitting at the head of the table, would always greet him when he entered and bid him farewell when he left, but apart from that rarely spoke to him. Lord Briarwood made a habit of finding something about Percy to criticize when he sat down, most often relating to how he presented himself. He had been the first to take note of Percy’s hair changing color from dark brown to white in the space of just a few short weeks.

There were others, as well. Professor Anders regularly joined them for dinner, though he had made little effort to engage with Percy since their first conversation after the Briarwoods’ coup. In direct contrast to Professor Anders was Doctor Anna Ripley, who seemed to have taken a particular interest in Percy. She would question him about experiments he had done, tease him with some of her own ideas, and even try to trick him into correcting her by making small, intentional mistakes while in casual discussion with Professor Anders. He knew the mistakes were intentional, because after the first time he had – almost against his own will – offered the correction, he had noticed her glancing at him from the corner of her eye every time she “slipped up” and said something that they both knew was wrong.

Less frequent visitors included Sir Kerrion Stonefell, the Briarwoods’ guard captain, though that was usually only to talk business with Lord and Lady Briarwood. They also occasionally saw fit to invite their new cadre of nobles: traitors or sycophants who had helped them take the castle that night, and had been rewarded for their aid with titles and lands. Percy tried very hard not to think about what had become of the people who had previously held those titles and lands.

He was partway through his meal, one evening some six or seven weeks after the attack, when Lady Briarwood set down her knife and fork abruptly and said, “You still believe she’s alive, even after all these weeks. I’m not sure whether to be impressed by your resolve or pity your inability to accept reality. Cassandra is _dead_ , Percival. We’re your family now.”

Percy slammed down his own knife and turned to glare at her. “You’re not my family, you’re my jailers! You stole my home and murdered the people that I love and one day soon you’re all going to pay for it!”

Lady Briarwood arched one delicate eyebrow, but apart from that offered no response. She returned to her meal without another word, and made no effort to speak to him again, not even when he got up to leave. He glanced back once when he got to the door, and saw her leaning over to speak with Professor Anders in hushed tones, her expression thoughtful. Percy grimaced before continuing out of the dining hall, pointedly ignoring the guard who had moved into step a few feet behind him.

He spent the rest of the evening in the library, trying and failing to get into the autobiography of the famed bard and comedian Tasha Broomswitch. It was surprisingly dry reading for the work of someone best known for making people laugh, and he eventually had to give it up, going in search of some other book to distract him. Truth be told, he simply did not want to go back to his bedroom. If the rest of Whitestone Castle was his prison, then his bedroom was undeniably his cell, and he had begun to hate being there for any length of time.

He returned _Loving & Laughing With Tasha_ to the shelf, and started to peruse the stacks for something a little more exciting. Perhaps an adventure tale? It had been some time since he had indulged in something so childish, but he recalled loving them when he was younger. _The Sorcerer’s Stone_ , maybe? Or _The Larder, the Finch and the Warlock_ ; that had always been Ludwig’s favorite.

Before he could make his choice, he heard the distinctive _clack-clack-clack_ of Lady Briarwood’s booted heels upon the stone floor outside the library, fast approaching. Each step clawed at his nerves, and he clenched his fists for a few seconds before stepping out to meet her. Their eyes met, and he felt that same anger boiling up inside of him. The hatred he felt for her had to have shown on his face, but Lady Briarwood gave no indication that she noticed.

“Come with me.”

“No.”

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowed.

“Percival, I would like you to accompany me down to your family’s mausoleum. Right now.”

“Very well,” he said, much to his own surprise. His legs already seemed to be carrying him toward her without him even making the decision to move. Lady Briarwood smiled and held out an arm, which he inexplicably looped his uninjured one around. There was a part of him that knew that something had suddenly gone very wrong, but that part of him had been put away in a little box in the back of his mind, and he wasn’t listening to it.

He knew the way down to the mausoleum, yet Lady Briarwood seemed to be the one leading him as they walked, speaking in light tones as they went.

“This is for your own good, Percival. You cannot keep living in this fantasy world of yours.”

“It’s not a fantasy.” The sense of relief he felt at contradicting her washed over him like a wave. Whatever it was that had taken hold of his mind and body, it was clearly not all-consuming. “My sister’s alive. She’s going to come back here with an army and we’re going to destroy everything you hold dear, just like you did to us.”

Lady Briarwood laughed. “Don’t delude yourself. Even if your sister was alive, who would be interested in coming to your aid? Your family has enjoyed ruling over its own little fiefdom in isolation for the past two hundred years, making no effort to forge alliances with the rest of Tal’Dorei. I have to wonder how many of the country’s elite are even aware you exist all the way out here.”

That hit Percy harder than he expected, mostly because she was right. Whitestone had no official allies, and while there were a few de Rolos who, over the generations, had wandered beyond the city’s bounds, those who had settled beyond its borders certainly did not have the influence needed to raise armies. Did Cassandra even have anything on her to prove her lineage, or would she be dismissed as some wandering urchin, playing at nobility? The more he considered it, the worse the possibilities became.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he wouldn’t have realized they had arrived at the mausoleum, if not for the fact that at the precise moment he crossed the threshold he felt his mind suddenly clear, and just like that he was himself again.

The first thing he did was wrench his arm free of Lady Briarwood’s, backing away from her with all haste. She chuckled at his clear discomfort, but made no effort to close the distance between them again.

“What did you do to me?” he demanded.

“I merely made a suggestion. One that you found… irresistible.” She smiled fiendishly at him. “Now, since you’re already here…”

She gestured further into the mausoleum. After a few seconds if indecision, he managed to straighten up and fixed her with his angriest glare. Her smile only broadened, so he looked past her, focusing on a point further down the corridor. Much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he wanted to know why she was so determined to bring him here. He _already_ knew, truthfully, but he wasn’t willing to admit it to himself.

Without giving himself a chance to dwell on it any further, Percy squared his shoulders and marched straight past Lady Briarwood without sparing her a look. He heard her start walking a few steps behind him – _clack-clack-clack_ , it echoed down the corridor – but he tried to ignore her.

“This is the one,” she said, gesturing to one crypt at the end of the corridor that Percy was sure had not been there the last time he was down here.

Inside there was a single wooden casket in the center of the room, resting upon a stone platform. The lid was slightly askew, no doubt to give Percy ample view of whoever was inside should he approach. He _had_ to approach. It was a compulsion so similar and yet so different to the one that Lady Briarwood had used upon him. His breath quickened and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. In spite of every instinct that told him to turn and run, he stepped into the room without any prompting. Up the steps of the platform, one, two, and then he was there, staring down at the decomposing corpse of his youngest sister.

His insides churned. He had only a second’s warning to turn away from the casket before his whole body heaved and he began to empty to contents of his stomach out onto the floor of the crypt. He fell to his knees, continuing to dry wretch for a long moment after there was nothing left to bring up. Even after it had stopped, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“It’s as I said,” came Lady Briarwood’s voice from the door. “ _We_ are your family now.”

… … …

They thought that showing him he was alone in the world would break him? They thought he would give up once he knew there was nobody coming to his rescue? They didn’t understand him at all. All they had done in showing him that Cassandra was really dead was convince him that he had nothing left to wait for. If nobody was coming for him, if nobody was going to punish the Briarwoods for their crimes, than he would just have to do it himself. The only question was how many of them he could take out before they killed him.

He made his move at dinner two nights later. Sir Kerrion was there, enjoying one of the bottles from the de Rolo wine cellar and bragging about the latest bout of executions he had overseen. That might have been what pushed Percy to act so hastily; some of the names Sir Kerrion listed off were familiar to him, and the dismissive way in which he spoke of them made his blood boil.

“I tell you, there can’t be many left now,” Sir Kerrion was saying as he refilled his goblet. “Give me another week, maybe two, and I’ll have ferreted out all that’s left of this little insurgency. Nobody will question your right to rule Whitestone by the time I’m done.”

That was final nail in the coffin for Percy. Without stopping to think, he tightened his grip on his knife and sprung up onto his chair, then over the table. Sir Kerrion, his instincts dulled by three goblets of wine, didn’t even seem to realize what was happening until Percy had stabbed him in the neck, twisted the knife with as much force as he could muster, and then ripped it back out again. Sir Kerrion leapt to his feet, knocking back his chair as one hand flew up to put pressure on his bleeding neck wound. He made a grab for Percy with his other hand, but Percy pulled out of the way, jumping back down onto his side of the table.

“Get back here, runt!” Kerrion roared, snatching up his goblet and throwing it at Percy even as he started to make his way around the table towards him.

The goblet clipped Percy on his injured arm, causing a sharp spike of pain where the bone hadn’t quite finished healing. He held the knife out in front of him threateningly, trying to back away and get his three enemies into his line of sight – just in time to catch Delilah in the midst of casting a spell. Before he had a chance to react, he felt his whole body suddenly seize up. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move; even his eyes were locked in place. He could do nothing but watch as Kerrion closed in on him, taking his time now that Percy could no longer escape or fight back.

“I am very disappointed, Percival,” Lady Briarwood said, regarding him with an expression of pity that he did not for a second believe was sincere. “Not surprised, of course, but yes… disappointed. Kerrion, go see Byron…”

“He stabbed me!”

“And he will be punished for it, I can assure you of that. Sylas and I will be taking care of that, however, while you go get that neck wound seen to. Try not to bleed out on the way, I’d hate to have to replace you.”

Percy couldn’t be sure, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Lady Briarwood had just threatened her guard captain. There was a very tense moment where Sir Kerrion shifted his glare back and forth between them, before finally growling something under his breath and storming away. Percy saw the back of his neck exposed, and he threw all he had into pushing back against the magic that held him. A shout of rage escaped him and he charged straight at Sir Kerrion–

Only for the air around him to whip up with such force that he was nearly lifted bodily off the ground. Sir Kerrion spun about to face him, but made no move to come closer. Percy couldn’t make out his expression, squinting against the rushing wind that was buffeting him about. Whatever Sir Kerrion saw apparently satisfied him, because after a few seconds he resumed his walk out of the hall. Percy shouted into the wind, trying to chase after him, but each step was a struggle in and of itself. By the time he had escaped it, Kerrion was gone.

The Briarwoods were not, however.

“Go on, then, darling,” Lady Briarwood said as he turned to face them. She was leaning up against her husband, a hand resting on his shoulder as she kissed him on the cheek. “Have yourself a proper dinner. Just remember not to kill him.”

“You have no faith in me, my dear.” His tone was teasing, his hand tender as he placed it over hers. Lady Briarwood laughed, and the sound sent shivers down Percy’s spine.

“I’m simply aware of your voracious appetite, love. I wouldn’t blame you for getting carried away, but he’s worth more to us alive.”

“Of course, of course.” Lord Briarwood turned to look at him with a predatory smile. “Now, Percival, what do you say we make this a bit more sporting? I’ll give you a headstart, say, to the count of five.”

“I won’t run,” Percy snarled, tightening his grip on the knife. That earned him a mildly amused smirk from Lord Briarwood.

“Suit yourself.”

Without any further preamble, Lord Briarwood came at him at a dead run, surprising Percy with the speed at which he closed the distance between them. That didn’t stop Percy from swinging at him with the knife, knowing he probably won’t get a better chance to strike a killing blow.

Somehow, he missed entirely. It was as though Lord Briarwood had seen the exact arc Percy’s swing would take and came to a stop just shy of it. Then he responded with a single, sharp strike to Percy’s stomach, driving all the air from his lungs and forcing him to double over in pain. Before he could fall all the way to the floor, however, Lord Briarwood caught a handful of his hair and yanked him up onto his knees.

“Just remember, Percival: what happens next is your own doing,” Lord Briarwood said calmly as he forced Percy to meet his gaze. Percy stared at him for one second, two, three… and then made his best effort to spit in his face. It was a pitiful attempt, as he had never seen any reason to learn how to spit at someone – it had just seemed so uncivilized.

Lord Briarwood actually chuckled at his attempt. Then leaned down and bit into the side of Percy’s neck with teeth that were far too sharp to be a human’s.

… … …

Percy learned very quickly that “what happens next” involved a lot more than learning firsthand that Lord Briarwood was a vampire. He was no longer permitted out of his room; two guards were assigned to watch over him at all times – even while he slept, and used the chamber pot – and the door was kept locked from the outside except during shift change or when meals were being delivered. These meals left a lot to be desired compared to what was served in the dining hall, providing the bare minimum for nourishment and little else.

Worse still were the people who delivered them: people he recognized, servants who had been with his family for as long as he could remember. Every one of them was dead now, their bodies reanimated and in varying states of decay. Had the Briarwoods been using the undead for labour since they arrived at the castle, and Percy had just never noticed? Or had they been killed and then raised up as another way of punishing him? The uncertainty ate away at him most nights.

The days and weeks started to bleed together. He wouldn’t have known how much time had passed except that at some point his arm finished healing. It was stiff, and weak from lack of use, but it no longer caused him pain. Almost as soon as the sling came off he started regular exercises to build up the muscle again, for all the good it would do him. Lord Briarwood was a vampire and Lady Briarwood could control his mind with a few words. Killing them was probably beyond his capabilities, and they had made it abundantly clear that they weren’t going to kill him.

He had no idea how long it had been since he had had a visitor, which was why it came as such a surprise when one of the guards opened the door at dinner time one day and Doctor Ripley walked in, bearing a tray with two plates of actual food on it. Percy narrowed his eyes at her.

“What do _you_ want?”

“Nothing nefarious,” she said, giving him a bemused look. “I merely thought you might appreciate a proper meal and some intelligent conversation. I don’t imagine you’ve gotten much of either these past couple of months.”

Percy glared at her. She shrugged, setting the tray down on his desk and taking a seat in the chair.

“Come now, you can’t tell me you’d prefer stale bread and three day old stew?” She picked up what might have been a chicken leg a bit into it casually, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Percy was keenly aware of his mouth watering and his stomach growling, and he tried to find a rational reason for not accepting her offer. She could be trying to poison him. Drug him. Trick him in some way by offering a friendly face.

On the other hand, what else did he have to lose? No family, no freedom, nothing else to exercise his mind since they wouldn’t even bring him books from the library. And if she was going to poison him, then Percy was happy for her to face the consequences with the Briarwoods.

His decision made, he reluctantly got up and joined her at his desk. She made no move to give him the chair, so he was resigned to standing up while he ate.

“Okay, I’m eating,” he said after his first few bites. “Where’s this intelligent conversation you promised?”

Doctor Ripley smiled. “I’m curious about your familiarity with firearms.”

Percy stopped with a piece of carrot halfway to his mouth. He scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re talking about handheld cannons with ammunition small enough to fit in your pocket? I’ve read about them – in adventure novels. Next you’re going to tell me that you’ve encountered spacefaring hippopotamus men as well.”

“On the existence hippopotamus men, I can say nothing one way or the other. But I _am_ telling you I’ve _seen_ an actual firearm in action. I’ve held the plans for one in my hands. It was deeply flawed, but the young man who designed it was working under… less than ideal circumstances, so that’s to be expected.”

At this, Percy rolled his eyes. “If this is your idea of intelligent conversation, I would ask that you please leave now.”

“You’re not even the least bit curious if I’m telling the truth?”

“No, I’m…” He stopped. That smug look in her eyes, that sly grin. She had to be baiting him. But if she was telling the truth… Well, what could be the harm in humoring her? “Prove it.”

Her grin broadened, but all she did was pick up another chicken leg and stand up. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Percival. Enjoy your meal.”

She was true to her word, returning the following night, and the night after that as well. Every time she visited him for the next week, she offered him token bits of information – enough to keep him interested and to convince him that she wasn’t lying through her teeth, but nothing of any real substance. At the end of the first week, she brought a few sheets of paper and a charcoal pencil with his meal. She made no mention of it, gave no indication that she even noticed it, but when she got up to leave it was still there on the tray next to the plate.

He was certain he was being manipulated, but a part of him didn’t care. He was being challenged for the first time in months. He spent most of that night sketching out ideas based on what little she had given him. Every so often he would glance up at the guards, wondering when they would put a stop to this little game of Doctor Ripley’s, but they never did. That meant it was Briarwood-approved. Were they trying to get him to make weapons for them? If that was the case, he should stop before things went too far. The last thing he wanted was to arm his family’s murderers with even more potent weapons.

Selfishly, though, he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to solve this puzzle, correct whatever flaws that Doctor Ripley had seen in the original design that even she had been unable to fix, and prove to himself that he wasn’t completely useless. And maybe, just maybe, if he could build a working prototype… Well, he could only imagine how much more damage one shot from a handcannon could do compared to a table knife.

That was thinking too far ahead, though. He needed to be smarter this time, and that meant no assumptions about his odds of success.

When Doctor Ripley returned the next evening, he was already seated at his desk waiting for her. She set down the tray of food on his bed, and then frowned.

“Did you lose the paper I left for you?” she asked, seeing that his desk was bare.

“Oh, no, it was very useful.” With a smug grin, he nodded towards the chamber pot. Doctor Ripley looked at it, and then looked back at him. To his surprise, she actually laughed.

“Percival, I had no idea you were capable of such pettiness.”

“It’s not pettiness, it’s caution,” he said. “Nothing in life is free, Doctor.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity. What do you want?”

“Obviously you’re doing this with Lord and Lady Briarwood’s approval, so tell them if they want me to work on it with you then I’ll be expecting a bit more freedom. No more guards watching my every move, at least while I’m on this floor. They can be stationed in the stairwell. I’ll also require a fully stocked workshop. And proper meals, not just leftovers of whatever you had for dinner with them.”

Doctor Ripley crossed her arms as he spoke, an amused expression on her face.

“I’ll relay your conditions to Delilah and Sylas,” she said. She turned to leave, then stopped and glanced back at him. “Did you really, and forgive my language, wipe your ass with the paper I left you?” Percy offered her his best shit-eating grin, but didn’t respond. “At least give me something I can bring to the Briarwoods to assure them that you’re worth the trouble.”

“The design wasn’t nearly as flawed as you made it out to be,” he replied without missing a beat. “Inefficient, to be sure; I think the fuse mechanism can be done away with and replaced with something more reliable.” He stopped suddenly, and narrowed his eyes at her. “Which you already knew, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Just how outdated is the information you’ve been feeding me?” he asked, getting to his feet. “How far along in development are you?”

“Far enough that Delilah thought it worth continuing. Sleep well, tonight, Percival.”

With that, she departed.

Percy did _not_ sleep well that night. His mind raced with ideas, adjustments that he could make to his previous adaptation of what Doctor Ripley had given him, now that he knew he had been working with old information. When he woke up the following morning, he considered it a small miracle that he had gotten any sleep at all.

There were no guards at the door. He got up quickly to test the handle, found it was still locked, and tried not to be disappointed. No, disappointed was the wrong word. He was annoyed. He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but the possibility that he could build a weapon to fight the Briarwoods with right under their noses had filled him with the kind of energy he hadn’t felt since before his ill-advised attack on Ser Kerrion all those months ago. All he needed to do was maintain his composure and not let anything slip.

The door unlocked nearly an hour after he had awakened, by which time he had made several changes to the previous day’s handcannon diagrams. He had also scrawled a few alternative names for the new firearm, because “handcannon” just didn’t fit with the more streamlined weapon he was designing. Ripley appeared at his shoulder, eyeing the papers in front of him.

“‘Wheel gun’? ‘Firespinner’? You haven’t even built a working prototype and you’re already considering names?”

“No time like the present, Doctor.”

He could practically feel her rolling her eyes beside him.

“Yes, well, on that note: come on, you said you wanted a place to work that wasn’t here.”

“What?” Percy looked up at her in surprise. “You’re saying they threw together a fully-stocked workshop for me overnight?”

“Don’t be foolish; I’ve brought some of my own equipment. You can pick one of the other rooms on this floor to set it up.”

The realization hit him like a punch in the face: the rooms closest to him on this floor belonged to his siblings. _Had_ belonged to his siblings. They were empty now. He hadn’t given it any thought in months, but those rooms had been empty since the night Ludwig and Cassandra were killed. While he had bemoaned being stuck here in his room, they would never occupy theirs again.

Something inside him felt twisted up. His fists clenched. He wanted to hit something. A particularly dark part of him wanted to hit Ripley, for the hand she’d had in his family’s deaths. He physically recoiled at the thought. It was too close, too personal. He wanted the feeling of a weapon in his hands, even if it was just another table knife. He needed to hurt something. Someone had to pay for what had been done to them.

“Percival?”

“Stop calling me that! Stop… just stop!” He tried to pick up the chair and throw it at the wall. It was too heavy, and his left arm was still too weak, for him to get it very far. That didn’t help at all. It just made him angrier, and the knot inside of him tightened up even more. He seized the chair in both hands, dragged it closer to the wall, and then with a wordless shout he lifted it and swung with all the strength he could muster.

The impact did little to the chair or the wall, though it did jar his entire body, forcing him to take an unsteady step back. He tried again, and this time he barely got the chair half as high as he had. His arms were starting to shake – no, his whole body was shaking. He was starting to feel dizzy, and his head was hurting. When had he started crying? Nothing about this seemed real.

He sank down to his knees, leaning heavily on the upturned chair and resting his head on his hands. He missed them all so badly that it felt like it was tearing him up inside. He hadn’t even thought about them in months, what kind of brother, what kind of son did that make him?

“Are you able to breathe alright?”

Percy looked up to find Ripley standing over him, regarding him critically. He stared back at her for several long second before giving a hesitant nod.

“I… I think so…”

“Good, come with me.”

She hooked a hand under his right arm, pulling him to his feet, and then half-led, half-dragged him out of the room. He hadn’t expected the sense of relief that seemed to wash over him as soon as he was out in the hall. It was like he was breathing fresh air again after spending years underground. Ripley let go of him, taking a pitcher from a tray that had been left by the door and pouring the contents into a wooden cup.

“Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “This should help.”

After a few seconds of staring at it, Percy glanced up once at her face – her expression unreadable – and then reluctantly accepted. After taking a sip and discovering that it was just water, he quickly drained the cup and then accepted the offered pitcher to refill. That done, he leaned back against the wall and tried to get himself back under control.

“Deep breaths can help as well,” Ripley was saying. “Take as much time as you need to.”

He shot her a sceptical look. “Doctor Ripley, I had no idea you were capable of such compassion.”

“I’m offering you tools to help yourself so that you can be of better use to me,” Ripley responded coolly. “Don’t mistake practicality for sentiment.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He took another generous sip of water. “You act like you know a thing or two about helping someone through… whatever that was.”

“Let’s just say… I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with traumatized individuals.”

Percy felt a tired, dull flare up of that same anger. “Can’t you just… give me a straight answer for once?”

She looked at him, her brow furrowed and a thoughtful expression crossing her features. Silence hung between them like a great gulf, and for almost a full minute he was sure that she would just dismiss him.

And then she proved him wrong.

“I’ve done a lot of unconscionable things over the course of my career. My goal has always been to push the boundaries of what can be done, of what _should_ be done, and I’m not ashamed to say I’ve hurt a lot of people in the process of furthering that goal. I have no doubt I will hurt a great many more before I’m done. When I say I’m experienced in dealing with other people’s trauma, nine times out of ten it’s because I’ve inflicted it. Some of them were rendered useless to my efforts and discarded, but others pulled through. Over time I learned what helped and what didn’t when a person enters a triggered state like what you just experienced.”

By the time she had finished speaking, Percy was staring at her in a mix of disbelief and horror. “How can you talk so casually about inflicting so much harm on people?”

“I am what I am. I don’t have to explain myself to you, nor will I apologize for it.”

He could only shake his head slowly. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.”

“You don’t have to understand me.” Just like that, she was back to being all business. “You just have to be willing to work with me. So, tell me: _are_ you willing?”

There really was no question. It was help Ripley, or go back to being a prisoner in his own room. “I am.”

“Good. Now, the equipment I had brought up is at the top of the northern stairwell. I’m going to go check it over to make sure none of it was damaged on the way up here. You eat something, have some more water, and then come join me as soon as you feel able.”

She walked away. Percy closed his eyes, sinking down to the floor as he tried to calm the anger that persisted even now. He smacked his hands lightly against the wall behind him, but something about the action felt forced or insincere. The white hot rage that had taken hold of him had slowly ebbed away, and he didn’t really know how to deal with what was left. It was almost like being in a dream; each impact of his hands against the cool stone felt slow and useless. It all just made him feel so…

Helpless.

Like being back in that prison cell. Cassandra had been the one who saved him then, and for what? She was dead and he was imprisoned again. She should have just left him there and gotten herself to safety.

Make them pay for it. He knew the thought was his own, but he could almost imagine Cassandra saying it to him. She was never one to take anything lying down. Their parents certainly hadn’t helped; they had doted on her in that way parents were so often wont to do with their youngest. Thinking about what a brat she could be at times, particularly when they were younger, actually caused his lips to quirk in a slight smile now. She wouldn’t have given up if their places were reversed. He couldn’t give up now.

The meal that had been left for him was a simple mix of fruit, biscuits, and honey. He finished it all quickly, then had a final cup of water, and got up to go look for Ripley. Between the two of them, they moved all of the equipment to his father’s study on the eastern side of the castle, near the guest quarters and Professor Anders’ study. He paused at one point, looking at the door through which he had gone for so many lessons over the past few years.

“Tell them,” he said after a moment, “that he has to move if they want me to do this. I don’t want to be running into him by accident in the hall.”

Ripley had the nerve to smirk in response. “I’ll be sure to let them know.”

In all, it took them nearly two hours to get all the equipment into the study, rearrange the furniture, and then get everything set up. Both of them were sweating heavily and worn out from the exertion, and Percy was glad to take a short rest before they jumped straight into the actual work. All external signs to the contrary, he thought that maybe he hadn’t quite recovered as fully as he originally thought.

He was distracting himself with the _actual_ designs that Ripley had been working on when the woman herself spoke up.

“Be very careful of your thoughts around Delilah.”

He looked over in surprise, not bothering to hide his confusion. “Pardon?”

“You might have noticed this already, but she has a very keen sense of what the people around her are thinking. One might go so far as to say a _magical_ sense.”

Percy took a moment to consider that, thinking of some of the odd comments Lady Briarwood had made. He was reminded of the night she had taken him down to the mausoleum; how she had spoken with such certainty about his belief that Cassandra still lived.

“Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you on their side?”

“I’m on my own side, just as I’m sure you are as well. I don’t believe for a second that you’ve simply given up and decided to throw your lot in with the Briarwoods. You’ve got some sort of scheme in mind, and I’m telling you to keep your thoughts in check when you’re around them.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

She frowned, looking annoyed. “The work is challenging, and they’re paying me well for it, but I’ve been betrayed by trusted associates once before. I’m willing to take the Briarwoods at their word, for now, but I would be a fool not to have some sort of insurance in place.”

“So that’s what this is?” he gestured around at the equipment and the diagrams. “Insurance against some future betrayal that may never happen?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t do the same in my place?”

He scowled at that, not liking the idea that he could be anything like her. That same smug smile returned, and she dipped her head slightly in a clear gesture of farewell.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, _Percy_. I’ll be back tonight to see what progress you’ve made.”

“I look forward to it. _Anna_ ,” he added at the last second, just to see what sort of response it got. Her smile got a little less smug, a little more amused, but she turned away before he got a chance to fully gauge her reaction.

Once he was alone, the task at hand suddenly seemed a great deal more challenging. That was okay, though. Percy thrived on challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually decided to have a little fun with this story and did some dice rolling in a couple of places, some of which could greatly affected Percy's future in this universe. Anyone care to guess at which points I rolled? They probably pretty obvious but I'm curious if they stand out to people.


End file.
